


When They Were Human

by Lagerstatte



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Haunting, Insanity, Snowed In, Trapped, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 13:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21254060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/pseuds/Lagerstatte
Summary: On the fourth day, the last day before the storm, they spread out a little. There’s not much left to do so it’s mostly an exploratory venture, double checking the list of things to come back for, making sure they haven’t missed anything. It’s deemed safe enough — not even a sniff of a daemon, and there’s only so far they can go — so they split up.Prompto isn’t keen, but he’s tired of being the cowardly one, and he’s trying his best to break that habit. There are a few buildings further out, sheds and a small barn. He makes his way to them, frozen grass crunching under his boots, and finds a field of bones.





	When They Were Human

They find the village cold and empty of life, as expected, and spend the better part of the next three days stripping it of whatever they can: food, medications, electrical equipment, car batteries, anything perishable, tossing it indiscriminately in the armiger. It’s protocol to work together — to save on light usage, to better survive daemon attacks, so no one gets lost and never found again — and no one questions it. Prompto alternates between a cheerful commentary and bitching about the conditions. He doesn’t need to bring up how unsettling it is, working where people had lived, who were all dead or turned into daemons. They’re sort of mostly used to it, by now; it’s mostly just sad instead of devastating.

And it’s nice to work together, Gladio thinks, just the three of them. He missed it, even if it could be in better circumstances. He says as much, when they’re finishing up and heading back to camp.

‘Just like old times,’ Ignis says jovially, even though he knows it’s nothing at all like old times. The ache where Noct should be hurts when he talks about _back then_, but it always hurts. It should hurt. Sometimes Ignis talks about it on purpose, just to make it hurt more.

The wind outside blows ice-cold. It’s been blowing since they arrived, and being inside doesn’t help. It creeps in every building to find them — houses, the clinic, the bank they’re camping in — no matter how deep inside they are, or hard they try to block the cracks and gaps under the doors. Ignis tries to be joking when he complains about it, but really he can’t stand it. No matter what he does its reach is entirely out of his control, and he hates being out of control.

It’s early summer but in Niflheim, where Shiva died, that doesn’t mean much. The ground is frozen, the air painful to breathe. On the third day they get a warning that a snowstorm is coming in, fast. _A bad one_, the radio operator adds, ominously. _We probably won’t be able to reach you until it’s over._ When Ignis suggests they bunk down to wait it out instead of trying to outrun it, or worse, drive back through it, Prompto and Gladio both agree. __

_ _They’ve encountered no daemons, which is unusual, but Ignis supposes it’s been long enough they’ve all moved away. With nothing to hunt, there’s nothing keeping them here. They have no attachment to what used to be their homes, when they were human._ _

_ _He can’t complain; it makes staying in the village considerably safer and more comfortable._ _

_ _Comfortable except for the cold. It’s bitterly cold, and getting colder. On the end of the second day Ignis had been forced to wrap a scarf around his face because his dead eyeball began freezing in its socket, and he’s kept it on whenever they venture outside camp. They all have Niflheim military issue clothing, but whenever they stop to rest by the gas heaters they’ve set up, their hands, feet, and faces are stiff and frost-nipped._ _

_ _‘You need to layer your socks,’ Ignis tells Prompto, as he warms his toes in his hands. They feel cold and rubbery, lifeless, to Ignis._ _

_ _‘I do!’ Prompto’s protest is weak._ _

_ _‘Layer more,’ Gladio says, and throws a pair of socks at Prompto, hitting him between the eyes. ‘There’s no wind so it doesn’t feel that cold; doesn’t mean it won’t get you.’_ _

_ _On the fourth day, the last day before the storm, they spread out a little. There’s not much left to do so it’s mostly an exploratory venture, double checking the list of things to come back for, making sure they haven’t missed anything. It’s deemed safe enough — not even a sniff of a daemon, and there’s only so far they can go — so they split up._ _

_ _Prompto isn’t keen, but he’s tired of being the cowardly one, and he’s trying his best to break the habit. There are a few buildings further out, sheds and a small barn. He makes his way to them, frozen grass crunching under his boots, and finds a field of bones._ _

_ _The skeletons are laid out side by side, dressed up in scraps of threadbare cloth. There’s bits of mummified flesh still clinging on in places, hair and fingernails, but mostly it’s just old bone, Gladio says for Ignis’ benefit after they arrive, giving it a walk-around. Long dead, Gladio says. There’s perhaps a hundred of them. Some are children. A few are only babies — just the tiny skulls and short spines left, everything else rotted away._ _

_ _Prompto hates it. Ignis is half glad he can’t see, and half morbidly curious._ _

_ _‘There may be something explaining it,’ he says. ‘Doctors’ notes, or a diary or some such.’ As a rule they don’t read or go through personal belongings — partly out of respect, but mostly because diaries aren’t useful for anything. There are more accounts of tragedy and disaster than a hundred thousand playwrights and novelist could ever need._ _

_ _‘Yeah,’ Prompto says, ‘let’s go do exactly what people do in horror movies. That’s reasonable. Sure.’_ _

_ _‘I’m sure they’d be more likely to not look into it and die unsuspecting.’ Ignis knows trying to reason with fear is mostly useless, but he wants to rationalise it to himself as much as Prompto. Perhaps a contagious disease had taken them before medication or supplies had been able to reach the village. Or perhaps this is the site of a mass murder, though for what reason — nothing had, that they’d noticed, been stolen or disrupted — he doesn’t know._ _

_ _‘Uh, not what I wanted to hear,’ Prompto says. He hugs his arms around himself, but, wrapped up in a thick winter coat, he doesn’t feel any warmer._ _

_ _‘Let’s just get back,’ Gladio says, suddenly unnerved. ‘We’re vulnerable out here.’_ _

_ _‘Better not anger anyone by attracting daemons to trample over their mortal remains,’ Ignis says, putting as much jolliness as he can into the words. Prompto rewards him with a smack to the back of his head._ _

_ _‘Screw you. You wouldn’t be saying that if you could see them,’ he says, then immediately feels bad about it. It’s been years and he knows Ignis doesn’t mind him saying stuff like that, but it still feels awful._ _

_ _‘Perhaps,’ Ignis says, still smiling, then does something weird with his body, like a cat after it had its fur stroked the wrong way._ _

_ _‘Iggy? You good?’ Gladio’s voice is gruff, on guard. He’s alarmed, too._ _

_ _‘Yes,’ Ignis says, distracted for a moment before he catches himself. ‘Yes, quite alright. Shall we get going, then?’_ _

_ _Prompto has an ominous feeling in his spine as they set up camp, crawling over the back of his neck, but then he’d just been out standing on open, unmarked graves. Real people had died, the whole village, indiscriminate, and someone had laid out their dead bodies in rows. He’s pretty sure an ominous feeling is natural. He tries to imagine the people living in the village, with all its buildings weathered and falling apart, scruffy grass growing up everywhere, and can’t._ _

_ _He wonders who’d laid them all out, and whether they’d survived to wander off (and live in the village some more? What if they’re still here?), or if, after arranging everyone else, they’d laid down at the end of a row and died themselves._ _

_ _Maybe he shouldn’t think about it. Yeah. Better not._ _

_ _On the first day, the first thing they’d done way make themselves at home in an old meeting room of a bank — approved by Gladio in its structural soundness and defence potential, and Prompto, in that it’s not somewhere where people had lived. Ignis had no strong opinions, though approves of safety. The electricity and running water are all long gone from anywhere in the village, but most everything appears similarly insulated and withstanding the test of time: structurally sound, except for that blasted breeze. Now that he knows the civilians weren’t daemonified but died of some other cause, he’s more inclined to also agree with Prompto — albeit because there’s less likely to be traces of contagious diseases in a bank than in private homes._ _

_ _It’s painfully cold, like everywhere else in the village, and though they’re in a smaller room than the main hall it’s still impossible to heat up. They run the gas heaters all night, and mornings and evenings whenever someone is present to make sure they don’t burn the place down, but the breeze still creeps in and sucks out the heat._ _

_ _On their return after finding the bodies, Ignis gets the camp stove going, so they can have hot water to wash in, and Gladio and Prompto sit around the heaters and attempt to warm up. There’s nothing much left to do, now, and any desire to map out what’s left is gone._ _

_ _‘What do you think happened?’ Prompto asks, out of the blue. His face is white with cold, but reddening slowly. Ignis still has his scarf wrapped around his eyes._ _

_ _‘Niflheim?’ Gladio says, and shrugs. He doesn’t especially want to talk about it; in hindsight he wishes he’d done something for the dead. If not burying them, since the ground is frozen solid, then cremating the bones and leaving offerings. A grave marker. Even covering them with sheets would be better than doing nothing. ‘None of them looked injured, though.’_ _

_ _‘Suicide pact,’ Ignis says._ _

_ _‘What?’ Gladio says. The word puffs out in a cloud of condensation._ _

_ _‘Didn’t you hear?’ Ignis says. He starts unwinding the scarf from his face, and watching him, Gladio is suddenly trapped in the terribly surety that underneath, Ignis’ eyes will be bright and whole, but not Ignis’. They’ll be watching him._ _

_ _They’re not; they’re dead and blind, like always. Ignis winces, rubbing at them. There’s gunk in the corners of both, and Gladio looks away, feeling stupid. He knows Ignis can’t see him stare, but not looking is respectful regardless of whether Ignis knows he is or not. And anyway, Gladio doesn’t like to see either; it makes Ignis look sicker and more unhealthy than he really is. Image is important to him._ _

_ _The water finally gets hot enough they can take turns washing, which they do in the unheated room neighbouring theirs — someone’s office, however many years ago. The hot water makes it bearable, but only just. Gladio gives up drying himself off in the neighbouring room and comes back to dress as close to the heater as he can without frying his balls._ _

_ _‘Can’t fucking wait to get out of here,’ he says to Prompto, while Ignis is washing._ _

_ _‘Yeah,’ Prompto says, and tries and fails to smile._ _

_ _Something’s still bothering Gladio, though. It’s late, in the sense that they’ve been up for over 18 hours now, but it’s not like he physically can’t go out and do something for the dead. It’s not like he needs to wait for sunlight. The only thing stopping him will be the storm when it blows in, and even then he can leave offerings in the family shrines in each of the houses. They’re different to what Gladio is used to, but not that different. Did people in Niflheim leave offerings at their shrines? Whatever. It’s the least he can do. The houses and buildings are admirably well-built; if he didn’t know better he’d say they’d only been deserted a month or so ago, not years._ _

_ _He still doesn’t go, though. Prompto is on his back on the mattress they’d scavaged from a furniture shop down the road, staring up at the ceiling. The splashing in the neighbouring room stops and Ignis comes back in, dripping, naked. He’s shivering, which is good, because hypothermic people don’t shiver, but bad, because it’s making Ignis graceless and clumsy when, as a rule, Ignis is never clumsy._ _

_ _Gladio takes his towel from him, kneels at his feet, and rubs him down vigorously. Ignis protests, but he lets himself be manhandled, so Gladio keeps at it until he’s lobster red and fluffy haired._ _

_ _‘I am more than capable of dressing myself,’ Ignis says, ruffled adorably, as he finally makes his escape and grabs clean clothes. He leaves his visor off, though._ _

_ _‘You sure about that, Igster?’ Prompto asks from the bed, and it’s nice to hear him relaxed again. ‘You’re getting on in years, dude.’_ _

_ _‘Like a fine wine,’ Ignis says, archly._ _

_ _Gladio grins and slaps Ignis’ back hard enough he stumbles forward. Then he blinks, and frowns._ _

_ _There’s discolouration around Ignis’ spine, up near his left shoulderblade. It’s purple-yellow, blotchy, and now Gladio is actually looking, it doesn’t look good. It looks — unhealthy, mottled like a disease. Like there’s something underneath the skin._ _

_ _Gladio goes cold then hot then cold again, and he can’t find his voice. He manages to press a hand above the mark, stopping Ignis from slipping on the shirt he has in his hands._ _

_ _‘What’s that?’ Gladio asks. Prompto leans over to look, but doesn’t say anything._ _

_ _‘This?’ Ignis reaches over his shoulder and touches the skin. ‘The bruise, do you mean?’_ _

_ _He sounds mild and curious, but unalarmed, and Gladio doesn’t have the words to explain himself. It looks evil. He takes away his hand and Ignis puts on his shirt, buttoning it effortlessly._ _

_ _‘Now,’ Ignis says, with more relish, entirely artificial, ‘let’s decide on dinner, shall we?’_ _

_ _‘Oooh,’ Prompto says, immediately perking up. ‘I want curry! There was curry paste! With rice and veggies!’ _ _

_ _They have plenty of food. They have first pick of all the food they’d found, though of course it’d be unethical to take more than their fair share. Prompto knows people on these kinds of expeditions do, and he guesses he can’t begrudge them since they’re the ones risking their lives to find it, but still. He’d feel bad if they ate the really precious stuff._ _

_ _The smell of food does wonders to make the room feel more safe and homey, though, if not warmer. Maybe if he can get Ignis to put in loads of the chillies, Prompto thinks, watching the cooking. Despite the dilapidation the place is actually kinda nice — not modern or fancy, but a renovated old stone building, and someone had obviously cared to put in comfortable chairs and nice wallpaper, and order fitted wooden desks and stuff. It’s not like the soulless banks Prompto is used to. Too bad it’s all rotting and falling apart, and there’s a ton of dead bodies lying around outside._ _

_ _He’s not an expert but he’s pretty sure they must have died a while ago, to be skeletons like that. But they’re also all still lying there. Nothing has carried them off, or even messed around with them — no feral dogs or voreteeth or daggerquill. And that’s weird, right? Not that he wants messed up skeletons, but as least it wouldn’t be weird and unnatural._ _

_ _Maybe it’s fine. Maybe they all died and then it snowed and nothing could get at them. And there’s not that many animals this far into the colder areas of Niflheim anyway. That’s a normal, scientific explanation, Prompto thinks._ _

_ _Gladio is on edge, that’s obvious, though Prompto doesn’t know how to get him to calm down. He’s superstitious in the traditional sense, rather than the scared-at-horror-movies sense, but a bunch of dead bodies is freaky to anyone, Prompto guesses. Maybe Gladio would feel better if they gave offerings and did the proper rites and stuff. Tomorrow morning, maybe, before the snow starts. He hasn’t found any incense but candles also work, he’s pretty sure. There’s a ton of candles, for some reason._ _

_ _Ignis, on the other hand, seems unconcerned. Probably because he hadn’t seen the bodies. Or maybe he’s just that unflappable about death and stuff. He’s less traditional than Gladio, too. He knows the song and dance just as well, but Prompto knows by now he skips it if he can get away with it. If the bodies aren’t dangerous and they’re not bothering him spiritually, then why would he be concerned?_ _

_ _Except there’s _dead bodies_. Literally right outside. All the people, the kid and babies, who died and were laid out and never even got buried. No graves. Nothing._ _

_ _He tries not to think about it, only now he’s thinking about it, and all the spice in the world can’t warm him up after that. There’s a breeze, only a faint one, but it’s hitting his damp hair and giving him a headache. His hands are getting cold again, thick and clumsy, so he tucks them in his armpits. He can’t wait to get back to where it’s not stupid cold, all the time, everywhere._ _

_ _The wind outside is picking up, and doing weird things with the cracks around the windows and doors. It sounds like — it _sounds_ like voices, and nope, Prompto is not going there._ _

_ _‘Pretty freaky, huh?’ he says, because his mouth is not on the same wavelength._ _

_ _‘Hm?’ Gladio is still brooding, but he glances at Prompto._ _

_ _‘The wind. The way it sounds, right?’_ _

_ _Gladio’s brows furrow, like he doesn’t get it. ‘Yeah,’ he says, eventually, but not in a reassuring way. Prompto feels worse. He’s got the words on his tongue to ask Ignis, but decides against it. It’s just the wind. He really doesn’t need to make it a thing._ _

_ _‘Like crying,’ Ignis says, and Prompto wishes he hadn’t._ _

_ _‘No it doesn’t,’ Gladio says, and it’s harder than he’d meant to._ _

_ _‘Sorry, never mind, it’s fine,’ Prompto says. ‘Can we talk about nice things instead?’_ _

_ _Ignis smiles, and there’s something strange about his eyes that makes Prompto look away. He really should be used to Ignis’ eyes by now. It makes him feel guilty he’s not._ _

_ _He has nightmares that night, waking up again and again in a cold sweat, head jumbled up with memories of daemons and dying and being eaten up by scourge from the inside out. They’re sleeping squashed together on one bed for warmth, but it also means that when Prompto’s lying there, wide awake and too hyped up on fear and adrenaline to even start drifting off again, he can feel Ignis twist and groan and pant in his sleep. Nightmares, too, though Ignis often has nightmares. Gladio, on the other side of Ignis, is silent. Is he still there? Did he leave to take care of the bodies?_ _

_ _Just the thought of Gladio not being there sends another bolt of panic through Prompto, and he’s cold, so freaking cold. Even lying on think blankets and over-engineered sleeping bags unzipped on top to cover them, he can’t warm up. He can’t feel his feet; his hands are spongy and painful. He feels like he’s never going to be warm again. It’s reached down into his chest, his lungs, all his internal organs going stiff and cold._ _

_ _Ignis twitches and Prompto nudges him, trying to wake him up. ‘Iggy,’ he says, then freezes. The heaters give enough of a glow that he can make out someone standing by the side of the bed. Gladio? He can’t see properly; it’s too dark. It’s not Gladio._ _

_ _The person pulls back the covers and slips under them, pressing up against Prompto’s side._ _

_ _‘Another nightmare,’ she says. ‘Daemons again.’_ _

_ _Prompto doesn’t say anything, though there’s words in his throat. He swallows them back and wants, desperately, hysterically, to reach for Ignis, but he can’t make himself move._ _

_ _‘We’ll be fine,’ the person says. She’s crying, exhausted. ‘We’ll make it.’_ _

_ _She turns over and grasp at Prompto; Prompto squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t see her. His heart is pounding in his chest like it’s going to explode._ _

_ _He wakes up. The wind is howling outside. Ignis is beside him, making discontented noises in his sleep. On the other side of Ignis, Gladio is snoring._ _

_ _There are tears in Prompto’s eyes, tracks down his cheeks, icy cold in the air. His hands don’t want to clench into fists, too cold and clumsy, but he turns and shoves them under Ignis._ _

_ _Ignis wakes, gasping. He squirms away for a second, then catches himself. ‘You’re freezing,’ he says, and tucks Prompto’s hands in his armpits. ‘Here, move to the middle.’_ _

_ _‘Thanks,’ Prompto says, and crawls over Ignis to burrow in between him and Gladio. It’s immediately warmer, which makes him feel guilty, because now Ignis is on the outside and cold, but he’s too weak to not take it. He doesn’t want to be on the edge of the bed again._ _

_ _Ignis is silent, and Prompto closes his eyes. He has no idea what time it is. Maybe he can sleep some more before Gladio cracks the whip and gets them up._ _

_ _Not that he really wants to sleep, if he’s going to have dreams like that. His heart is still pounding._ _

_ _He’s afraid this isn’t real life but another dream, and that he’ll end up waking up again. He’s stupid tired, and he can’t stop shivering. He slips back into confusing nightmares._ _

_ _Gladio wakes first, ten minutes before he set the alarm, and lies still, trying not to dread getting out of bed and leaving what scraps of heat are left under the sleeping bags. He can hear the storm outside, and his stomach drops. He should have tended to the dead before falling asleep._ _

_ _There’s nothing he can do about it now, though. The dead are out of his reach. Their car won’t be able to make it back, so they’ll have to radio Aranea or someone to come pick them up. No radio until the storm ends; it’s not like her ship can even land in this weather. They’re going to just have to bunk down and wait it out._ _

_ _Gladio doesn’t like it. He can tell there’s something wrong, and it’s not because he’s spooked by dead people, or that they’re effectively trapped. It’s something else. He just can’t tell what._ _

_ _He’s worried about Ignis and Prompto. Ignis doesn’t seem to be aware of anything wrong, and Prompto is clearly unhappy. Both will be victims of whatever’s wrong with this place, if he can’t defend them._ _

_ _Maybe it’s just the cold. Now the storm has settled in, it’s cold as fucking balls. The winds must have knocked something loose, because there’s a breeze now too._ _

_ _Prompto wakes up next, then Ignis. When Ignis gets up — and in this weather even he’s reluctant to get out of bed — he drags on as many clothes as he can while still maintaining some freedom of movement, then gets to preparing breakfast._ _

_ _Gladio watches him. Speaking of freedom of movement, he’s moving strangely. Stiff, like he’s uncomfortable or in pain. Or like he doesn’t quite fit into his body._ _

_ _It’s off-putting to watch him, normally so graceful and precise, now clunky and awkward, so Gladio turns and busies himself getting washed and dressed. He tries a few warm-up exercises, but even when he’s sweating and breathing hard there’s no getting warm. The breeze bothers him. Gladio wonders how easy it would be to find where it’s coming in from and block it. Probably not easy at all, but he’s pretty sure it’d be worth it, if he can just get rid of it. It blows right through him and makes him ache._ _

_ _Prompto sits by the heater, wrapped up in a sleeping bag, and works on double checking their inventory of the loot they’d collected. It’s technically necessary, but he’s really doing it to kill time while they wait for breakfast. An inventory means they can unload everything at Lestallum, hand over the inventory, and it’ll all be distributed out fairly and there’ll be no finger pointing or accusations of theft. Prompto personally thinks it’s dumb, because it’s not like anyone can stop them taking stuff and just not putting it on the inventory in the first place, but whatever. Bureaucracy. Gripping the pen in his fist like a small kid, because the cold fucks up his fingers, he checks everything off. Ignis can check stuff in the armiger like Noct can, just magically knowing what’s in there, but Prompto has to pull stuff out to know. Gladio has to as well, which makes him feel better about it. Iggy’s just good at it, he guesses. He’s had longer to practice. _ _

_ _It’s waiting for breakfast to be ready, but it’s also something to distract himself with. Prompto remembers he’d had bad dreams, and at some point in the night he’d moved to the middle of the bed — though maybe that was just Iggy having got up to piss and settled back on the outside. The nightmares bother him, though. There’s something specific he can’t remember, but feels like he should. Had something happened that wasn’t a dream? It’s freaking him out._ _

_ _The wind isn’t putting his mind to ease, either. It’s howling, and the noises like voices are back. He has no idea how wind even does that, but maybe he’s just too used to the insulated windows and properly fitted doors back in Insomnia. Or just milder weather in general._ _

_ _If he listens hard enough, he can almost imagine the voices are saying stuff (not almost imagine — they _are_ saying stuff), and he can pick out the words, and maybe he’d heard something last night and that’s what he can’t remember? Only why the fuck is he thinking this? This, he tells himself firmly, is real life and not a game. And if it were a game it’d be a fun RPG, not a horror._ _

_ _The wind isn’t speaking. People aren’t out there in the snow, their voices carried to him on the wind._ _

_ _Nope, nope, nope. Prompto shoves the rest of what he has out back in the armiger and goes to stand by Ignis, trying to find warmth in the stove._ _

_ _‘This place sucks,’ he says._ _

_ _‘It’s not the nicest holiday destination, is it?’ Ignis says, as he’s grilling some dried fish. Prompto watches the oils bubble up on the brown flesh, smelling it now he’s close, and feels better. ‘I personally preferred Galdin Quay.’_ _

_ _Ignis had said he could hear crying in the wind, and Prompto considers complaining about the voices to him. But then Gladio would hear, and that might freak Gladio out even more, and anyway Prompto is freaked out enough without thinking about horror stuff. Better just to pretend it’s all fine and normal and he can’t hear sounds like people outside._ _

_ _He can, though, he becomes more and more sure. He can almost pick out words. What if there are people still alive outside? What if they came in because they saw lights and now they’re stuck and freezing to death?_ _

_ _‘Prompto,’ Ignis says, and it startles Prompto from his thoughts. ‘How are you holding up?’_ _

_ _‘Ugh,’ Prompto says. ‘Just — the wind, you know?’_ _

_ _‘Yes,’ Ignis says, so completely neutrally that it kind of wigs Prompto out, too. ‘I’ll be glad when it stops.’_ _

_ _Suddenly, Prompto doesn’t feel better around Ignis. He glances up at him, and his eye that got burnt from the cold is roving around. It settles on Prompto, peeking at him sideways._ _

_ _‘Gotta go,’ Prompto blurts, and he hightails it back to the heater, because there’s nowhere else to go to. Not if he doesn’t want to freeze to death, anyway. The breeze creeps down his collar and he puts up his hood, but that doesn’t stop it._ _

_ _They eat. Ignis and Gladio wash up. Gladio picks up a book to read, and Ignis fusses over the stove, doing something between deep cleaning it and taking it apart just because._ _

_ _Prompto fidgets. He can’t stop thinking about the dream. The voices. That there are (dead) people outside._ _

_ _Maybe there are daemons outside. None of the daemons he’s seen so far can make this kind of sound, but that doesn’t mean none of them can ever._ _

_ _Maybe there are daemons inside. Maybe he can hear voices because there’s something wrong _him_. Gladio and Ignis can’t here them, after all._ _

_ _And now he’s thought about it he can’t stop. His chest constricts and for a moment it’s hard to breathe. Maybe it is him. He’s been feeling off and it’s weirder than just being alarmed after seeing dead people._ _

_ _The wind howls, and the breeze creeps in around his hood. Maybe he’s becoming a daemon. He can remember someone saying something about daemons recently. Ignis? Or was it Gladio? He can’t remember. It’s so cold._ _

_ _Ignis had said he’d heard crying. Does that means he’s becoming one as well? His eyes had looked weird earlier._ _

_ _There’s sweat breaking out on Prompto’s palms, his back, his armpits. How long will it take? Should he just… go out in the snow now, freeze to death so there’s no chance he’ll turn and harm the others?_ _

_ _It’s a good thing he already moved away, and no one can see his face. He doesn’t want to have to deal with Gladio and Ignis right now. Especially not when they’re probably going to turn into daemons, too._ _

_ _He’s going insane._ _

_ _He can’t cope. He needs to do something — run, preferably. He can do laps around the main hall._ _

_ _‘Where’re you off to?’ Gladio asks pointedly when Prompto gets up and goes to the door._ _

_ _Prompto winces. For some reason he doesn’t want to tell Gladio, but it’s not like he can think of an excuse._ _

_ _‘Just need to run off some of this energy,’ he says. ‘Gonna explode if I don’t do something.’_ _

_ _‘Fine,’ Gladio says, ‘but don’t leave the building.’_ _

_ _‘No shit,’ Prompto says, and leaves._ _

_ _He regrets it. The voices are louder the closer he is to the main doors. When he jogs past the doors he can feel the breeze through the cracks, and it feels like it’s reaching for him. It wants him to stop and really listen. Or go outside. It wants him to leave; he wants to go outside._ _

_ _No. What? He really doesn’t, but the knowledge that he’d thought he did can’t be got rid of. Prompto puts on a burst of energy and sprints another lap. He’s losing it. He can feel his control slip away from him, leaving him stupid, irrational. He needs to get back to the others._ _

_ _As soon as he turns to go something bangs on the door, like knocking, only loud, violent, slamming into the wood and making it shudder. Prompto spins round, but it’s stopped. He can see melted water seeping in from outside, under the door. It’s coming towards him._ _

_ _‘Thanks,’ he says, voice shaky, ‘but no.’ He turns and sprints back to Gladio and Ignis, terrified now his exposed back is turned to it, certain he’ll be got. But he slams back into the room where they’ve set up camp and Gladio and Ignis both look up at him, alarmed._ _

_ _‘What happened?’ Ignis asks, alert, voice concerned._ _

_ _Prompto closes the door behind him, but it won’t latch shut. He shoves at it, and feels it shove back._ _

_ _He slams it and jumps away, and he doesn’t even care he’s being a coward, fleeing to between Ignis and Gladio, the safest place in a hundred kilometer radius. ‘There’s something out there!’ he bleats._ _

_ _‘What does it look like? A daemon?’ Gladio says, and he already has his greatsword out. The door is closed. There’re wet footprints, though, coming in. Following him._ _

_ _‘It was banging outside,’ he says, weakly, terrified. ‘Against the door.’_ _

_ _‘Should we investigate?’ Ignis asks. He has his knives out._ _

_ _‘Yeah,’ Gladio says._ _

_ _They go, and Prompto comes too, because although he’s scared he’s probably more scared of being alone, Ignis thinks. It’s fair enough. They shouldn’t split up again._ _

_ _He doesn’t know what caused the banging, though — hopefully something falling against the side of the building, or the strange properties of ice and snow reacting to changes of temperature or pressure. It may be a daemon, of course._ _

_ _It seems all a bit of a waste of time, but he supposes they have nothing else to do. If it’s a daemon, better to kill it quickly and not risk it sneaking up on them._ _

_ _There’s nothing in the main hall, and when Gladio opens the front door, all that comes in is a lot of snow and very cold wind. Gladio struggles to shut the door again, so Ignis helps him, even though he can sense Gladio’s disgust at having him near. It’s hypocritical, Ignis thinks, since Gladio is also becoming a daemon, but then again it’s not something people can be rational at._ _

_ _‘Nothing,’ Gladio says. ‘Probably just the ice or something.’_ _

_ _‘I dunno,’ Prompto says, not convinced, but he doesn’t push it._ _

_ _They head back, because especially now the door has been open it’s cold, far too cold to live in, and Ignis has no idea how people here had survived. His head aches again, all the way down to his teeth, the top of his spine. His eyes hurt in a way they haven’t done since he was blinded._ _

_ _The person who’d radioed in to tell them about the storm hadn’t told them how long it was predicted to last for. She’d sounded harried and uninformed, but it’s particularly vital now, more than ever, that they get out and start making their way to the nearest outpost. They have an excessive amount of food, medicines, and other supplies in the armiger that will be completely useless if none of them make it back. And more importantly, Ignis needs to be back for when Noct returns. If Ignis’ time is limited — and it is limited — then he needs to make absolutely sure that he lasts as long as possible, and he’s available to go to Noct at any time._ _

_ _How long does the daemonisation process take? He has no idea. But he will survive. The idea that he won’t be there for Noct when returns is unthinkable, so he discards it offhand._ _

_ _There’s water all over the floor; Ignis can feel it suck at the soles of his boots. Snowmelt. Prompto must have brought it in._ _

_ _‘Ugh,’ Gladio says. ‘Is there a mop or something?’_ _

_ _They can’t find a mop, so they use tea towels and wads of paper towels from the staffroom kitchen. The water doesn’t seem to be lessening, though, no matter how long they take crawling around and mopping it up._ _

_ _‘It’s coming in under the door,’ Prompto says, suddenly, and he stands. There’s nowhere he can go that’s not damp with snowmelt, though. It covers the whole floor._ _

_ _‘What’re you talking about?’ Gladio says, and it should be friendly and mocking, but instead it’s snappy._ _

_ _‘Can’t you see?’ Prompto’s voice is edging on hysterical. ‘Look at it!’_ _

_ _Ignis can’t look, so he goes and crouches by the door. The floor is wet, icy cold. The water clings to his fingers like ink._ _

_ _‘You’re fine, they’re dead, they can’t hurt you,’ Gladio says. ‘Quit being a little bitch and shut the fuck up.’_ _

_ _‘It’s the scourge! There must be daemons outside, or—’_ _

_ _‘You’re the who didn’t want to leave offerings,’ Gladio shouts, furious, and there’s a smash as he knocks over a heater. ‘The dead are disrespected in their own homes, and you’re crying about scourge?’_ _

_ _The cold seeps up Ignis’ fingers, into his hand, then wrist. He pulls away before it can get far up his forearm; his whole hand is painful with cold, and he pulls his arm up through his sleeve and cradles it to his chest, hissing as it burns against his skin._ _

_ _‘Please, Gladio, we gotta get out.’ Prompto sounds desperately afraid, and it moves something in Ignis, springing him into action._ _

_ _‘Where’s the scourge?’ he says._ _

_ _Prompto moans in fear. ‘It’s all over you,’ he says._ _

_ _‘What the fuck does that matter?’ Gladio shouts, cutting him off. ‘You have no fucking respect for the dead, for our traditions. Iggy, you should know better, and what did you do?’_ _

_ _The cold hasn’t stopped crawling up Ignis’ arm, only slowed down. He can’t clench his fingers. His flesh feels hard, like it’s frozen under his skin. He needs to go somewhere warmer, or he’ll die._ _

_ _He gets up and goes to the other side of the room, and out into the corridor. The wave of freezing air hits him, but if he pushes through far enough, he’ll reach somewhere warm._ _

_ _He needs to survive, after all._ _

_ _They haven’t had need to use what he assumes are the back offices and storage rooms, so they haven’t gone in them. It means Ignis is navigating entirely blind, listening out for the echo of his own footsteps to guide him, feeling for the faint pulse of magic that permeates the world._ _

_ _The floor is carpet, and the walls a faintly textured wallpaper. There aren’t any windows, just doors._ _

_ _Ignis hears the creak above him, and stops, faltering like an untrained chocobo at a hurdle. Another creak, louder, the building gritting its teeth and groaning._ _

_ _The ceiling caves in, and a falling beam crashes into Ignis, and snow covers him. He hears glass smash. His arm, the one not frozen and useless, bends back at the elbow. It snaps. Agony tears through him, and again when he bangs his broken arm against the rubble in trying to escape._ _

_ _He’s disorientated. Which way had he been coming from, and which way is he going? He stumbles, and turns towards the running footsteps coming up on one side._ _

_ _‘Iggy,’ Gladio says, and then he swears, and his voice breaks. His grief is terrible, and it threatens to swallow him. ‘Your arm — fuck. Iggy. Fuck, I’m so sorry.’_ _

_ _‘What is it?’ Prompto, too, has come._ _

_ _‘His arm. Can’t you see? He’s turning into a daemon.’_ _

_ _As a daemon, Ignis knows he won’t be able to use the armiger. He won’t be able to access curatives, or his weapons — not that he has any functional arms left to wield them with._ _

_ _‘Iggy, I’m sorry,’ Gladio says, and Ignis feels a tiny burst of magic, like a dandelion head when it releases its seeds. He drops and rolls away, into the snow, and feels the displaced air as Gladio swings at him with his sword._ _

_ _‘What the _fuck_,’ Prompto says, but Ignis is already running, clambering over the rubble, through the snow that clings to his legs, and away. He knows Gladio would sooner kill them all than risk them becoming mindless, murderous daemons. But he can’t allow that. He’s not a daemon yet. He’ll live until Noct gets back._ _

_ _And if that means he’ll have to kill Gladio to survive — then he’ll have to kill Gladio._ _

_ _The corridor turns, and then turns him again. He’s running along the outside of the building: he can hear the wind howling, clawing its way in through the cracks around the windows, trying to get in. Behind him he can hear Gladio, giving chase._ _

_ _There’s stairs, and Ignis sprints up them. It’s even colder up off the ground floor, and Ignis wonders if he can feel the whole building bend and struggle in the gale, or it’s just his imagination._ _

_ _Prompto hears him go up. ‘I’ll check upstairs,’ he tells Gladio. Gladio grunts an affirmative, and leaves him to search the first floor._ _

_ _He’s not sure what he’s going to do when he finds Ignis. It’s true, what Gladio had told him — that when he becomes a daemon he won’t be Iggy any more, and Ignis would want to die, and it’ll be kinder to let him go peacefully, and not risk him harming anyone innocent. But he doesn’t want to. Even if Ignis were an actual daemon and not just turning, he wouldn’t want to._ _

_ _He’s never wanted to hurt his friends. He could never kill them._ _

_ _First job is to find Ignis, anyway. He can outrun him, could even back when Ignis was sighted, but not if he doesn’t know where he is. And it’s dark. Gladio had taken their light. Why hadn’t he thought of that until now? He trails his hand on the walls and tries not to flinch at the pitch-blackness. The wind drowns out any other sound, the sound of people’s voices, their indistinct words. It’s loud even up here. Prompto follows the inside wall, away from the windows. He doesn’t want to accidentally look out and see something in the dark._ _

_ _He circles the top floor — the corridor forms a loop, he discovers. He circles it again, then stops, not sure what to do. There has to be doors into the middle parts of the building, but he can’t tell them apart from the doors to offices or storage closets or whatever, and anyway, the idea of going into a pitch-black room terrifies him. _ _

_ _He’s alone, he realises, and he sits down. Knowing he was turning into a daemon had been bad. Having to do it alone, he thinks, burying his face in his knees, is so much worse._ _

_ _It won’t take much to get out a gun and shoot himself in the head. It’ll be quick. Painless, probably. Who knows what being a daemon is like — hopefully, not ever him, so he has to do it sooner or later._ _

_ _He thought he’d had his whole life ahead of him. He’d thought he’d get to see Noct again, and the sun, and live an actual, real life again. And now he can’t._ _

_ _He’ll sit here for a bit first, though. Maybe Ignis will come back. Not so he can do anything to him, but he really doesn’t want to be alone._ _

_ _Over the sound of the storm and the voices outside, he starts hearing footsteps coming down the corridor to him. When they’re closer, he can hear the gentle scrape of something, too._ _

_ _He can’t see who it is. They pass by him in the dark, and carry on around the corridor._ _

_ _Gladio can’t find anyone downstairs, and he hasn’t heard anything from Prompto upstairs. Maybe Ignis went outside. He finally makes his way back to the room they’d been staying in; snow has blown down the corridor, and the room is now ice-cold. Two of the three heaters have gone out._ _

_ _Ignis is probably outside. He goes and opens the big front doors, and snow blows in, like the storm outside is a coeurl trying to winkle out prey that’s hiding from it. He covers his face with an arm, but even then he can’t see. The glare from his light off the snow blinds him. The cold hurts him._ _

_ _It occurs to him as he stands there that they’ll all die anyway. The cold and snow will get them soon enough — bury them deep, send them to sleep, kill them before they wake. Their bodies, suspended in the whiteness, gone cold._ _

_ _No one to care for their bodies, or leave offerings for them in the afterlife._ _

_ _It reminds him of the bodies laid out in rows. The people who’d lived here, whom have no offerings, no graves, no incense. Their family shrines are empty._ _

_ _His sorrow is overwhelming. Even though he’ll take death over daemonisation — he’ll kill himself and the others before they turn to daemons — the sorrow still seizes him and shakes him to the core. He hadn’t thought it would end like this. But he can fix a little of what’s wrong, if it’s not too late._ _

_ _It’s exhausting to even stand still, with the wind and snow beating against him. He can’t see, and he can’t hear anything but the wind. His whole body aches as the cold reaches into him and settles inside of him, shrugging him on like a jacket. Walking outside is almost impossible, like the storm is trying to push him down, freeze him where he stands, but he has to do it. The wind claws at him._ _

_ _He finds the edge of the village, and the road that leads to the field of bodies. He won’t be able to find them, covered by snow, so it’ll be better to do this here, where they lived._ _

_ _It’s hard to work; even with thick gloves, his hands are next to useless. He works slowly and methodically. He needs a box he can put the incense in, so it’s not smothered by the snow and put out by the wind. A empty water jug works, that he can poke hole in to let oxygen in and the incense smoke out._ _

_ _In front of the incense jug he leaves a bottle of water, a packet of rice, and dried fish, lying it all on top of the brightest t-shirt he has, wine-red. It’s all he can do. He claps as best he can, and bows._ _

_ _Something in the air eases, but it’s hard to say what._ _

_ _He turns and struggles back. They’ll all die, but he should make sure… Ignis is clever and resourceful. It would be just like him to cling on and survive the storm, just to succumb to the Starscourge and become a daemon._ _

_ _He’s proud, in a way. Ignis could have given up in Altissa. He could have let his blindness define him, but he didn’t. He fought on, and Gladio is almost glad that he hasn’t given up now, even though it means it’s now Gladio’s job to kill him. It’s just like Ignis._ _

_ _By the time he gets back to the bank he’s almost on his hands and knees. The door is closed, and he has to smash it open with his sword just to get in and not freeze to death on the doorstep. He stumbles into the room they’ve been staying in and manages to change clothes, wrap himself in the sleeping bag, and sit in front of the heater that’s still working._ _

_ _How much time has passed? He has no idea. Slowly, his body warms up again. He should move on, but… he wants to wait here, where it’s a little comfortable. Just a little longer._ _

_ _Something moves in the corner of his eye. It’s Ignis, cautiously coming back into the room. He mustn’t be able to hear Gladio over the storm. He’s getting closer to Gladio, taking careful, slow steps. Going for the heater?_ _

_ _His arm is bent wrong, pressing to his chest shoulder to elbow, and from the elbow pointing backwards and down to his hip. His hand is dangling, limp and swollen, off the end like a tassell. It’s sickening to look at._ _

_ _Gladio waits for Ignis to come within reach, then he takes a potion and breaks it as gently as he can over Ignis’ arm. It heals._ _

_ _Ignis pulls away, alarmed, taken completely off guard. But he doesn’t leave._ _

_ _‘Gladio?’ he says, eventually._ _

_ _‘Yeah,’ Gladio says. It occurs to him that Ignis’ arm had only ever been broken, and not — what? He remembers it had looked wrong, terrible. Like a daemon. It muddles him. ‘Arm better?’_ _

_ _Ignis flexes his hand carefully. ‘Yes,’ he says, after some deliberation. ‘Much.’_ _

_ _‘Where’s Prompto?’_ _

_ _‘Hiding,’ Ignis says. He doesn’t expand on it. Gladio doesn’t know if that’s because he doesn’t know where Prompto is, or he knows but doesn’t want Gladio to._ _

_ _‘I think,’ Gladio says, carefully, ‘something was fucking with us.’_ _

_ _‘Do you think?’ Ignis comes closer, to stand by the heater. He’s careful, though. He looks like a feral dog ready to bolt. ‘We’re not out of danger.’_ _

_ _Gladio looks at Ignis — really looks at him. The skin around his eyes is red and blistering, not raw but not quite healed by the potion either. His lips are cracked. The bright light makes him look stark and hollowed out. It highlights the sallow colour of his skin. _ _

_ _‘How so?’ he asks._ _

_ _‘When I become a daemon,’ Ignis says, ‘I will probably try to kill you.’_ _

_ _Gladio doesn’t answer that. He’s silent for a long time, then says, ‘C’mon, let’s find Prompto and get the fuck out of here.’_ _

_ _Ignis follows him. ‘We won’t survive the storm,’ he says, patient, like Gladio’s being rehensibly stupid._ _

_ _‘Won’t we?’ Gladio says, grimly. ‘Alright. Where’s Prompto?’_ _

_ _For a while it’s just Gladio walking around aimlessly, holding the light in front of him. After a minute or two Ignis pushes ahead of him and leads him to the stairs. Ignis calls Prompto’s name up it; eventually, Prompto slinks down._ _

_ _‘Hey,’ he says, glancing between Ignis and Gladio. ‘Is, uh, everything sorted out? I think I really went crazy for a while there.’_ _

_ _Ignis snorts in amusement. ‘Perhaps,’ he says. He knows Gladio means to kill them simply by exposing them to the elements outside, but… it’s not that his head feels clearer, but that different things are starting to make sense. He can’t say which are the correct ones, at least not for now._ _

_ _He won’t die, and he won’t let Gladio stop him from being there for Noct. But he’s equally sure the breeze, the snow and meltwater all leaking into the building like infection, and they’re just as dangerous as the conditions outside. He might as well leave. There’s nothing left for him here._ _

_ _They go back and pack up the last of their things, and then they head out, with a rope tying them together so they don’t split up._ _

_ _Gladio can’t tell what Ignis is thinking. He has no idea about Prompto._ _

_ _He’s not even entirely sure about himself._ _

_ _He walks in front, wading through snow hip-deep. The wind blows in his face, stinging and sharp like pin-pricks. The winter in Niflheim belongs to Shiva; he’d been banking on her sparing them. Maybe he’d been wrong. The cold goes through his clothes and gets to his skin, where it creeps across his whole body. It sinks into his flesh first, and then his bones, making his ribs a cold cradle for his heart and lungs. His skull becomes heavy, cooling down his eyes and brain._ _

_ _It won’t be long before his body slows and shuts down. How far have they walked? Can they bury themselves in the snow, insulate themselves inside it until the storm and winds end? Or will surrounding themselves in it only give it even more power against them?_ _

_ _He can’t decide, so he keeps walking, shoving aside deep snow just to move forwards. Progress is agonisingly. One foot in front of the other, stumbling, pushing against the wind. Are they even going in the right direction any more? Who knows how many skeletons there are out here, buried under the snow. Perhaps the crunch he feels underfoot isn’t frozen soil or plant, but bone._ _

_ _Eventually they’re barely even moving forwards, and Gladio doesn’t have the strength to protest as Ignis reties the ropes so he’s in front, and takes Gladio’s place._ _

_ _The crying has stopped, though the wind is a curse all on its own. Ignis ducks his head against it, but there’s nothing he can do when it surrounds him so utterly. He’s inside it; there’s no escape._ _

_ _There’s a patch on his upper back, between his shoulder blades, that itches and feels warm; it’s the only part of him that does. He’s wrapped the scarf around his face, and the snow has made a thick mask over it._ _

_ _He’s got to get back. He will get back. He bows his head and carries on walking, trailing the others behind him._ _


End file.
